Underdogs
by Goldleaf83
Summary: Some men see nothing; others see everything—but say nothing. Written for the 2018 Speedwriting Challenge, and based on the episode "Man's Best Friend Is Not His Dog."


Private Ernst Schüttmann mounted the first rungs of the ladder, climbing up to his standard assigned post, the guard tower just to the side of Stalag 13's gates. He climbed stiffly but steadily: his bad left leg worked well enough to lightly support his weight while hoisting himself up one rung at a time. Upon reaching the platform under the roof, Schüttmann nodded to Private Salzwedel, relieving him of duty. Salzwedel climbed down and Schüttmann settled in for his own watch.

Technically, he should have had a fellow guard in the tower with him, but Stalag 13 was shorthanded. The Kommandant had deemed the gate towers the easiest place to cut personnel. The towers were close to each other and to the guards in the guard houses at the gates, so this area was already well watched. The guard towers on the farther sides of the camp, where prisoners were more likely to try to escape, needed the double coverage more.

Schüttmann didn't mind being alone in the tower. A taciturn man, he preferred it. No youngster gabbling at him, no oldster, like him, reminiscing about the good old days.

Schüttmann hadn't had any good old days. He didn't much like the new regime any better. Ernst had grown up orphaned, brought up by an unsympathetic aunt who had put him to work in a factory at twelve. The army had conscripted him in 1914. His game leg came from an injury during the Ludendorff Offensive in spring 1918; he had been captured by the British and spent the remaining months of the war as a prisoner. Schüttmann had never forgotten the stinging humiliation of being captured by the enemy, injured, helpless, and deserted by his fleeing comrades. His British captors had treated him with varying degrees of kindness (the doctors and nurses as he was healing) and roughness (some guards at the camp), but he had been grateful enough to escape the horror of the trenches that he had come to see his injury and captivity as a kind of luck.

His life after the war hadn't improved much. He had worked as a farm laborer for food and board after his discharge and through the post-war depression, making little money but never going really hungry. Then he had gotten a job as a night janitor in a factory. He had nothing to offer a wife and preferred his solitude, so he had never married. He had watched the rise of Nazism at first with indifference, then with private scorn at its nationalist stupidity—hadn't Germany learned its lesson in the Great War? Apparently not. But he had been wise enough to keep that opinion to himself. Not that he had anyone to share it with. And then in 1943, Schüttmann had been conscripted again, despite his age and game leg.

At least those had guaranteed him easy duty. He had been assigned as a guard to Stalag 13, one of the "dregs," as Kommandant Klink oh-so-kindly referred to the men under his command. But Sergeant Schultz, as a fellow survivor of the first war and a decent man, treated Schüttmann well, recommending him for tower duty, where he could keep watch from a stool without having to be on his bad leg all day, and then for the solitary tower where he could be free from social interactions as he liked. And Luft Stalag duty at least allowed him to become a creature of daylight again, after his many dismal years as a night janitor.

Schüttmann liked looking over the compound, the center of all action in the camp. His tower, on the barracks side of the gate, afforded him views of the alleys between the barracks as well as a commanding view of the compound itself and surrounding buildings: the Kommandantur especially, but also the slightly more distant workshop, cooler, kennels, water tower, and the entrance to the motor pool. He couldn't see the Kantine—the Kommandantur blocked it in his sight line—but otherwise he could watch all the action in the center of the camp.

He had come to know various prisoners by sight. The American colonel stood out, in his distinctive officer's uniform. His little coterie of men from Barracks 2, sporting a surprising diversity of national uniforms, were also easy to identify: the small French corporal in brown and red, the English corporal in blue, the skinny American boy in his woolly jacket, the tall black sergeant in green. They formed a colorful knot together against the gray compound dirt. Their barracks was at the front of the compound, easiest to see, so from his perch he regularly watched them fall out for roll call, do laundry, lounge around the plank bench in front of their barracks, and play various games: basketball, baseball, volleyball, football—plus the strange game the Americans liked that used a rugby-shaped ball that they confusingly also seemed to call "football," even though they never used their feet for it.

Over months of watching, Schüttmann had gradually become convinced that these men of Barracks 2 did far more than play games, however. It took a quick eye to spot, but they seemed to have a system of signals set up, although he usually couldn't tell what the signals were about. Their efforts often coincided with visits from outsiders, especially those from General Burkhalter. Strange incidents had taken place at Stalag 13, a few frighteningly violent, such as when General Richter's car blew up, most others merely odd, such as when a tent blew away like a balloon. Schüttmann felt relatively sure that more was going on at Stalag 13 than met the eye, and all to the Allies' advantage. But he didn't really want the Nazis to win their war; he owed a British doctor what was left of his leg; and he mostly just wanted to stay in a quiet, safe place.

Schüttmann's duty was to prevent escapes; he had noticed those were seldom attempted and with little seriousness, as though the prisoners expected—even wanted—to be caught. Whatever shenanigans the American colonel was up to, he apparently wanted to keep Stalag 13 and its perfect record intact. That was fine with Schüttmann, and he was privately willing to look the other way on other matters—as long as no one noticed him doing so.

Today seemed quiet. Prisoners milled around the compound, but no organized games were being played. Schüttmann's attention was drawn by a small movement down to his right, between the trip wire and the fence—just where nothing should be moving at all.

It was a dog. Not a big German Shepherd, like the guard dogs in the kennels, but a small brown and white dog with short legs. Part _Dachshund_ , part who knew what, small enough to have apparently slipped in through the fence.

It looked rather like the dog his grandfather had owned, in Ernst's early childhood. He wondered what had become of the dog when his grandfather had died. His aunt hadn't taken it in. He had always somehow missed having the dog in his life and wished he could have had it as his own pet. But his aunt had complained about how much feeding Ernst himself cost; she would never have wasted money for food for a dog.

Dogs were forbidden in camp, except for the guard dogs, of course. Schüttmann suspected this one must be lost from somewhere: it looked rather thin.

Just at that moment, the small French soldier from Barracks 2 came around the side of Barracks 5 and spotted the dog. He glanced left and right, then upwards. Schüttmann stared out to the center of the compound, as though he were oblivious to the dog. But he cut his eyes to his right and saw the Frenchman kneel down and the little dog run up to him as though invited. The Frenchman picked the dog up, petting and massaging its head and ears affectionately, and the dog responded by licking his chin.

One corner of Schüttmann's mouth lifted slightly.

The Frenchman tucked the dog inside his coat and headed toward his own barracks, backing into the doorway, presumably to hide the dog as much as possible. Schüttmann wondered what the reception would be for the little dog inside the barracks.

He would have enjoyed having a dog to pet and play with 25 years earlier, when he was a prisoner, but he couldn't imagine any of the guards in that camp allowing such a thing. Dogs got fleas, which might help spread diseases. They could be taught to bite guards—they could be turned into a kind of weapon. There were good reasons for not allowing pet dogs in a POW camp.

Schüttmann didn't think the Frenchman would do such a thing to this little dog. He just wanted to pet and play with it, like any normal lonely man would.

The dog must have gotten a good reception after all. Schüttmann saw the dog and the Frenchman emerge after a while: the dog had a bone in its mouth. The prisoner sat on the bench in front of the barracks; the dog got under the bench and chewed on the bone. The Frenchman fell asleep. Schüttmann watched the dog carry the bone behind the barracks and dig a hole to bury it. Then it returned to its sleeping guardian, sitting up and pawing at his knee. The Frenchman woke at the touch, looked around in surprise, then picked up the dog and slipped back inside the barracks.

So, apparently the dog had won some kind of consent to stay for the moment. And he was getting fed.

Schüttmann nodded in silent approval.

The prisoners of Barracks 2 eventually emerged as a group—without the dog—and got into formation near the fence: their colonel was leading them through calisthenics when a distant rumbling sound began, growing deafeningly louder as a convoy of tanks rolled down the road that led past the camp.

Schüttmann noticed as a young American fainted; the Kommandant strode up, shadowed by Sergeant Schultz, shortly afterwards. All the prisoners had gathered around the man on the ground, who seemed to be lying at an awkward angle, partly propped up by his comrades. The Kommandant focused on the American colonel, having some discussion with him—apparently about the tanks given that both of them stepped toward the fence and away from the man on the ground, whose other comrades stayed close to him.

Schüttmann grimaced. It figured that officers would care more about the military hardware on parade than the enlisted man in distress. Enlisted had to look after their own.

The Kommandant turned away, stalking back to the Kommandantur. The American colonel exchanged a few words with Sergeant Schultz, then knelt down to check on his man on the ground. The colonel even patted the downed man on the shoulder before rising and following the Kommandant. Well, perhaps American officers were more caring than German officers? Schüttmann had seen this one make such physical gestures before; they had puzzled him, coming from a high-ranking officer.

After the colonel left, the man remained on the ground, guarded vigilantly by his comrades. But why didn't they take him to the barracks? Soon, however, Sergeant Schultz returned, scolding the group of prisoners for not having returned their comrade to the barracks. The man rose and walked back, surrounded by his friends. He seemed steady enough on his feet. But Schüttmann noticed that an object had been left behind on the ground, right where he had been lying.

Schüttmann took his field glasses and adjusted the lenses. As it came into focus, he could see it clearly.

A camera.

The American soldier hadn't been sick. He had been taking pictures of the tanks.

Well, that was no concern of Schüttmann's. There wasn't much the prisoners could do with such pictures, even if they wanted to.

He suspected they would be upset about losing the camera, however, unless one of them realized that it had been left behind and came to get it. Schüttmann decided to see how long that would take.

Sergeant Schultz, however, found the camera first, noticing it as he headed toward the guardhouse. Stooping slowly to pick it up, he examined it, then carried it off to the Kommandantur—and, no doubt, Kommandant Klink.

A while later, he came back out and put the camera back where he had found it, shaking his head. Schüttmann wrinkled his nose. Probably his sergeant had wanted it for himself. So why put it back—?

Oh. Of course. As a trap for the prisoners.

As if in confirmation, Schultz next lumbered over to Barracks 2 and disappeared inside. A few minutes later, the door opened, Schultz standing in the middle as though about to leave, but then he shut it again. He must have forgotten something.

Schüttmann's attention was drawn leftwards by the reappearance of the Kommandant on the porch of his office. Klink strode across the yard over to the guardhouse, where Schultz joined him. Leaning back, Schüttmann could also see Private Dieter, who had just been kicked out of his station at the guardhouse in order to make room for the Kommandant and the Sergeant of the Guard. He was hovering just behind them, no doubt worried by his proximity to his superiors. Dieter shared Schüttmann's general attitude toward officers—the further away, the better—and applied it to his NCOs too. Fortunately for Dieter, his superiors' attention was not on him at all.

It was only a few moments after the Kommandant and the Sergeant got in place that the men from Barracks 2 arrived, their officer calling out directions as they began collecting cigarette butts and other minor trash. They were in the area of the camera but were ignoring it, drawing out the "discovery" that both the American colonel and the Kommandant intended them to make. Schüttmann wondered which one would "find" it.

He didn't have to wait long. The American colonel knelt down to pick the camera up, then rose, looking it over. His men crowded around him. The officer held it out to the English corporal, with a jerk of his head towards the Kommandantur, probably telling the Englishman to turn it in. Just then the Kommandant and Sergeant Schultz sped out of their hiding place, the Kommandant confronting the American officer. After several exchanges, the Kommandant turned on his heel and headed for his office, trailed by his sergeant. The American officer watched them go, then took a small object out of his pocket.

Film from the camera. It had to be. But the Kommandant hadn't had the man searched, as he should have. Schüttmann shrugged. If an officer couldn't manage the obvious tactic, he didn't deserve the prize.

The five crucial Barracks 2 men disappeared back inside their hut, leaving another ten to work on cleaning the yard. Schüttmann wondered what the workers thought of that. But they had the area efficiently cleaned within fifteen minutes, then they all returned to the barracks—although one, a Canadian, came out again shortly afterwards, with the little dog. It had another bone. It buried this one between Barracks 4 and 8.

If bones could grow into trees, at this rate Stalag 13 might become forested, Schüttmann thought.

An hour later, Schüttmann saw Sergeant Schultz and the Kommandant, accompanied by two other guards (it looked like Geissler and Meinhardt) headed over to Barracks 2. The Kommandant must have decided to search for the film after all—although of course by now the American colonel had had plenty of time to hide it.

Schüttmann had no doubt Geissler and Meinhardt would look hard, with the Kommandant breathing down their necks. He doubted they would find anything, however. The American officer was clever, and Schüttmann was sure the prisoners had plenty of hidey-holes for contraband, especially the smaller kind. He and his comrades in the prison camp in 1918 had managed to hide plenty of small forbidden items.

To his surprise, the little dog emerged through the open barracks door again, yet another bone in its mouth. It trotted off across the compound, right into the flower garden outside the Kommandant's quarters. It lay down in the shade of a rose bush; Schüttmann picked up his field glasses again to see it gnawing at the bone with gusto. The right side of his mouth curled slightly as he watched.

A couple of British prisoners in blue uniforms came strolling around the corner of the Kommandantur, probably out of the Kantine—it was about time for the shift change for the prisoners who had been working on making dinner. One of them noticed the little dog under the bush and called it; tail wagging, it came over to be petted. The second prisoner retraced their steps, returning shortly. Schüttmann used his field glasses to be sure—yes, he had a bone in each hand, leftovers from the soup, probably. The dog accepted these gifts as its due and ran off holding both in its mouth, making the two prisoners laugh. The dog hid the first bone under another bush at the far end of the garden. Still holding the second bone in its mouth, it then ran back across the yard, behind several of the barracks, and (just on the edge of Schüttmann's view) dug a hole in the vegetable gardens the prisoners were working on. Several other prisoners saw the dog leaving and stopped to pet it. One of them waved in the direction of Barracks 2 as they talked.

Smart dog, thought Schüttmann, to keep its food in several places. Much less likely to lose it all at once. Also, it made allies wherever it went. Plus, it looked like the camp rumor mill was working. He would bet that the Frenchman's dog was no secret among the prisoners and was the talk of the camp. He was also sure he was not the only guard who was overlooking its presence for the moment in favor of its entertainment value.

Eventually, the Kommandant emerged from Barracks 2, followed by a slower, trudging Schultz. Geissler and Meinhardt came out behind them and offered salutes; the Kommandant returned a salute but followed it up by shaking his fist at them before turning sharply to head toward his office. The Kommandant's gesture, plus the sergeant's dispirited pace as they crossed the yard, suggested frustration to Schüttmann. Apparently, the search for the film had been unsuccessful.

The Kommandant and sergeant had fortunately gone back inside when the little dog returned to Barracks 2, scratching on the door and even barking. Schüttmann frowned: it would be better if the dog made no noise. The door opened quickly and the dog was apparently welcomed back inside.

Schüttmann assumed he had seen the last of the dog for a while. But almost immediately the dog came back out, holding a big bone and followed by the French soldier, the American colonel, and his other three usual men. Schüttmann watched in bewilderment as they followed the dog around the camp, eventually ending up behind the barracks. The dog dug up a bone then raced away, followed by the Barracks 2 men after they had inspected the bone. For a good hour the men followed the dog around the camp. A couple of times the Frenchman returned to the barracks to bring a new bone to give to the dog, whose movements were then carefully tracked by the rest of the group.

What were they doing? Why so interested in the bones?

Ah, of course—the film.

Which bone had they hidden the film in to avoid the search?

Schultz came out of the Kommandantur, shooing the men back to their barracks. It was time for shift change, and Schüttmann was glad of it, despite the interesting day. He waited for Kistler, his replacement, to mount the ladder before making his own slow way down to the ground, then across to the mess for his dinner.

Schüttmann sat down at the end of the table, where he could eat his meal quietly. His younger colleagues ate companionably together, many of them discussing the little dog, whom everyone had seen and no one had reported. It seemed to remind half the fellows in the room of some dog that they or a friend had owned at some point. Everyone had a soft spot for it. Someone said that Schultz had said that the American colonel had said the dog was valuable, but that was too many "had saids" for Schüttmann to take any stock in. He dug into his sauerkraut, potatoes, and two accompanying sausages as he listened.

He was certainly eating better in the army than he could when cooking for himself before the war. Two sausages in one meal—he could not have afforded such a luxury. He thought again of the little dog. It had been given a lot of bones—but he was willing to bet it would like real meat. The prisoners wouldn't be able to give it anything like that.

Schüttmann looked at the remaining half of his second sausage. He slipped it into his napkin, and the napkin into his pocket.

Finished with his meal, he left the other men to talk over their cigarettes. That was another luxury he had not been able to afford before the war, and he seldom smoked now, even though he was given a ration of cigarettes. But usually he saved them: they were currency to buy other things that he liked better: some sweets, or sausages, or oranges. He carried a pack in his pocket, though, almost like a wallet. Tonight he took it out and shook a cigarette out, strolling slowly across the yard of the compound. Schüttmann seldom took walks, because of his leg, but the weather was fine and with the cigarette no one would question him.

He stubbed it out when he was outside Barracks 2. He had hardly ever been inside the camp barracks, and never by himself. But he put his hand on the door and opened it anyway.

The men of the barracks were gathered around the table talking, although Schüttmann hadn't the faintest idea what they were saying. The conversation died immediately as they spotted him, all their faces guarded. The Frenchman was nearest him, by the stove, clearly bristling at Schüttmann's intrusion. The American colonel moved forward to stand in front of Schüttmann, and spoke in English.

Schüttmann hadn't the foggiest idea what the man had said, but it had sounded fairly polite, if wary.

Maybe coming here had been a bad idea. But . . . .

" _Der kleine Hund_ ," he said, making a small space between his hands, about the size of the dog.

The Frenchman bristled still more, if possible. The American officer put his hand on the small man's chest but Schüttmann saw a flicker of alarm in the taller man's eyes.

They thought he had come to take the dog away.

Schüttmann fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the napkin. He held it out to the Frenchman and the officer.

The officer took it and unwrapped it. His eyebrows went up in surprise as he looked at the half sausage and he looked at Schüttmann curiously.

" _Für den kleinen Hund_ ," Schüttmann repeated, shrugging one shoulder. It suddenly occurred to him that maybe one of the prisoners would eat it instead—he'd had days when he might have been tempted to steal food of this kind. He hadn't thought of it until now, but it was probably rather insulting that he had come to offer food for a dog when he had never offered food to any of the prisoners.

He had hoped that maybe he could see the dog up close, but he realized now that the prisoners probably wouldn't admit to him that they had the little dog—wouldn't risk whatever the dog meant to them.

The American colonel was still watching him sharply. He seemed to make a decision and called over his shoulder to one of the men by his office door. The man opened the door, and the little dog immediately bounded out, frisking across the floorboards to the stove before looking up at the three of them standing there by it. He sat down and sneezed.

Charmed, Schüttmann laughed. The American officer gave the sausage back to Schüttmann and gestured to the dog. He said, in surprisingly fluent German, "You wanted to feed him?"

Schüttmann nodded and knelt down. He stroked the smooth fur of the little dog's head and back, and it smiled at him, mouth open and tongue lolling. He saw it sniff and get on its hind legs, angling for the sausage. Schüttmann broke a piece off, feeding it to the dog and watching it joyfully gulp it down, before he added another piece.

The sausage didn't last long, but the little dog licked its chops and Schüttmann's fingers; it had clearly enjoyed its meal. Schüttmann looked up from where he knelt on the floor to see fond smiles on the faces of the other men as they regarded the dog. Smiles that matched his. Giving the dog a final pat, he rose back to his feet, as the Frenchman bent down and picked up the dog, stroking him.

Abruptly, the American officer said, "You guard the left tower."

"No, the right—ah. Yes, the left from inside the camp." Schüttmann paused and added, "I saw the dog come into camp this morning." The officer nodded. Schüttmann locked eyes with him. "From up there, I see everything."

The American officer froze, then straightened to his full height, shoulders back. Schüttmann held his gaze. "Take care of the dog, and keep him safe. Do not worry: I will report nothing." Then he gave one short nod and left the hut, shutting the door behind him.

ooOoo

The next morning, Schüttmann pulled himself up to his post as usual. The morning routine unfolded as usual, although the American officer and his men were again following the dog around, giving him bones and watching where he took them. The rest of the guards took pains to be looking the other direction when necessary. The American colonel looked up at Schüttmann in his tower a few times; Schüttmann did not look away, nor did he otherwise respond.

Midmorning, a car came through the gates. A visit from the Swiss Prison Commission—Sergeant Schultz had warned all the guards to be on their toes. Two men and a woman—the woman wearing the distinctive armband of the _Bund Deutsche Mädel_ —got out and entered the Kommandantur. The Barracks 2 prisoners disappeared back inside soon afterwards, looking tired and dispirited.

Shortly thereafter, a tour began, the Swiss men inspecting the camp quite thoroughly, the woman observing with a look Schüttmann recognized quite well. His aunt had worn the same expression almost every time she had looked at him. Eventually the group ended its tour at the Kommandant's quarters. A more comfortable space for talking than his office, Schüttmann supposed.

The American officer came out of the barracks and strode over to the Kommandant's quarters. Shortly afterwards the little dog slipped out of the barracks, as if following the colonel, and headed for the garden of the Kommandantur, where he had happily spent part of the previous afternoon. When the American left the building soon afterwards, the little dog frisked up to him. The officer bent over and picked him up affectionately.

Schüttmann stiffened as the woman left the Kommandant's quarters and called sharply to the American. He couldn't hear their exchange, but it looked tense. Then the woman stepped closer and the American relaxed. The Swiss men and the German officers stepped out on the porch, and the American and the woman stopped talking. The American set the dog down, which promptly went into the garden and started to dig.

General Burkhalter gestured to it in disgust, turning to the Kommandant, who promptly turned to Sergeant Schultz, waving his swagger stick at the dog. Schüttmann's heart sank. Now that the officers knew about the dog, it couldn't stay in the camp.

The American went over to the dog, knelt down and pulled up the bone it had uncovered, then he picked up the dog too and walked over to the woman, offering the little dog to her and putting the bone in her purse.

Ah. The film.

An unexpected person to give it to.

The woman seemed surprised, but she held the little dog and stroked it kindly. She took it with her as she got into the car with the men. It snuggled on her lap. The American colonel watched them go, smiling—until he looked up at Schüttmann's guard tower. He spread his hands slightly, as if to say, "What else could I do?"

Schüttmann returned the officer's gaze for a long moment, feeling a lump in his throat. Then he nodded. The little dog's fate at Stalag 13 had been sealed as soon as the Kommandant saw it. The _Bund Deutsche Mädel_ woman looked like she could provide it with a good home, and like everyone else she had seemed charmed by it. Schüttmann willed himself to believe it would be so.

But he would miss the little dog around here. He felt as though he had lost a dog of his own.

He fixed his eyes on the compound and told himself not to be so foolish. How could you lose something you never had?


End file.
